


"In Which Sollux Transforms Into a Beautiful Chair" and Further Tales of Whimsy

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Art Criticism, Bad Puns, Beautiful, Chairlux, Multi, Purple Prose, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also includes "In which Karkat transforms into a tube sock," "An Object Lesson," "The Johnkat Manatee Triptych: An Artistic Retrospective," "Ephemera," "Their Pound of Flesh," "Sensuality of the Learned," "Complacency of the SEXXXY," and "A Prompt Generator Companion."</p><p>For the kinkmeme: bizarre fills for bizarre prompts, collected here for convenience because they're not all archived on the Delicious index.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Sollux transforms into a beautiful chair

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _eridan is crossdressing as a disney princess and sollux is slowly turning into a chair. then eridan gets really turned on by sollux being a chair and crouches over him, promptly laying eggs. then the eggs hatch and its a bunch of johns???_  
>  Fanart:  
> By [a beautiful anon](http://img841.imageshack.us/img841/3312/bedtimestoriesohgog.jpg) on the original thread.  
> By [tumblr user Sharona](http://fnohomestuck.tumblr.com/post/10145514511/in-which-sollux-transforms-into-a-beautiful-chair-1-2).

"Goddamn it," Sollux announces to no one in particular, "it's the third time this week." He lets out a small, resigned sigh as his body contorts into a wall-sitting position and his legs freeze in place. Gradually, inevitably, inexorably, he will metamorphose into that humblest of furnishings; a chair.

Depending on the season and the inconstant proportion of day to night, being a secret werechair on Alternia had been, in turns, horribly inconvenient and no trouble at all. He had simply learned to deal with it after being bitten by a rogue papasan as a child. However, in the Veil, the irregular path of the meteor has wrought strange and unexpected changes in his transformation schedule; at times he even walks about with ordinary arms and slender, elegantly scrolled chair legs.

Elegantly scrolled chair legs that, as it turns out, drive at least one other troll wild with unspeakable, forbidden passion. A passion as regular and familiar as the tides, yet infinitely more tempestuous. _A passion for furniture._

In fact, though no one openly mentions it, all this exposed wood provokes the creation of far more wood, although in a more organic fashion befitting a classy double-entendre about trolls who get boners upon seeing other trolls turning slowly into chairs. Unaware of this, however, and behaving as he has all his life, Sollux thus begins his gradual transformation into a beautiful oaken fauteuil.

Meanwhile, Eridan grins broadly as he strides down the hall in a tremendously puffy pink dress, swollen with eggs in an alarming manner that cannot quite be concealed by his dozens of petticoats. This day, he thinks, could not in any conceivable manner improve; who would have guessed that all one had to do to make John forget about not being a homosexual was to dress up as a princess? And who would imagine that the compatibility between humans and trolls could altogether negate the necessity of a mother grub? This idea is so ludicrous that he laughs, hurrying back to his room as the eggs shift ominously within him.

However, when he spots Sollux helpless against the wall with his four elegant chair legs and his arms contorted to fuse with his knees, Eridan realizes that this day is destined to be the best day of his life. "Nice legs," he offers with a leer, patting the seat of the chair.

"Fuck you," Sollux replies as he puffs up slightly to make cushions. This is the most uncomfortable part of transforming into a chair, but he tries to put on a brave face, despite the fact that his face is the upper part of a chair back. "What the hell are you wearing?"

"I'm bowled over that you don't recognize me, lowblood!" Eridan declares, tracing his plunging but rather flat decolletage with a claw. "I'm obviously Troll Cinderella, otherwise known as Trollerella."

"Oh," Sollux responds flatly as his glasses clatter to the floor. "I'm a chair," he adds, figuring that in his current situation he has less room than usual to mock Eridan.

"I noticed. Chairs don't have any blood," he says speculatively, stroking Sollux's cushions, dragging a claw down the shining wood of his arm in a way that would perhaps evoke a shudder if he weren't a chair. "Maybe in your pitiable condition I can even find you attractive...lowblood."

"You just said I don't have blood, asshole, you can't have it both-"

"And ya know," he interrupts in a suggestive murmur, "the exposed wooden elements of a fauteuil are often gilded or otherwise painted, but yours are _obscenely bare_ , landdweller." Lifting his voluminous skirts, he climbs astride the helpless chair, crouching and looking down at Sollux's eyes. "Maybe I can do a little painting myself. How about...violet."

"Oh my god," Sollux snaps, "what the hell, _I'm a chair._ "

"And I," Eridan proclaims as the first egg slides out of his nook with a sound mercifully left undescribed, "am a _beautiful princess_."

"Oh goddamn it," Sollux protests as the spherical white egg lands on his lower cushion, leaving a purple splotch on the sumptuous golden fabric. "You stupid fuck, it's going to take so long to wash out."

"I know!" Eridan answers, already panting with bliss. "You're filthy."

"As soon as I'm not a chair I'm going to fucking murder you," Sollux snarls. "And all your progeny that you're leaving on me because you're an inconsiderate asshole. Who did you even find to mate with you?" Several more eggs fall from beneath the dress, forming a messy heap on his cushion.

"Oh," Eridan moans promisingly, "you'll see." His stomach visibly decreases in size as he expels more eggs with a series of soft, excited whimpers, each egg roughly the size of a fist. He holds Sollux's horns, protruding from the top of the chair, to retain his balance as he crouches. "Welp, that's about all of 'em."

"Gross," Sollux notes. One egg rolls from the top of the heap and cracks on the ground as Eridan dismounts. A black-haired head emerges from it, then a small body. "What the fuck is that?" It stands up, inexplicably wearing a little green suit, as the shells of the other eggs begin to crack and give way to identical facsimiles.

"They look just like their daddy," Eridan says tearfully, holding a frilly fan up to his face. "I'm so proud."

"When I change back, I swear-" Sollux begins, but Eridan interrupts him with a tiny sob.

"You really chaired me up, lowblood," he sniffles, abandoning the scene with a swish of petticoats and leaving a single glass shoe behind as tiny Johns begin to swarm the hallway.


	2. In which Karkat transforms into a tube sock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Karkat catches a Meowth. Unfortunately, this causes Karkat to turn into a sock. John stumbles upon the seemingly abandoned sock and proceeds to jerk off in it. Brownie points if the pokeball is used as well._

"At last," Karkat hisses, crawling through the dense underbrush toward the small clearing, his body marked with small scrapes and bruises. "I've finally found you." In one hand he clutches a Pokeball. It is the last of the Pokeballs he has bought with the dregs of the money laboriously scraped together via the sale of his possessions.

Although his friends increasingly objected to his insatiable obsession with catching all the Pokemon - all of them - Karkat has remained unrelenting in his pursuit. As of late, his keen mind has been fully ensconced in ruminations over one in particular. A beautiful, cream-colored beast that flits through the shadows of trees, gold glinting brilliantly from its forehead; undeniably tempting, yet so deliciously elusive.

His pursuit of Meowth: that's right.

Indeed, he has at last caught it unawares. Meowth lies comfortably beneath a tree, sunning itself and enjoying a nap, and as Karkat sneaks up and regards it victoriously it does not stir. The tiny fangs protruding from its mouth remind him slightly of Sollux. Remembering his friends, Karkat experiences a touch of foreboding, the merest twinge of regret; for a moment he imagines leaving the Meowth where it lies and returning to the way things so recently were, to find love and to be loved, to live as thoroughly and excellently as he can the life he has been granted. To let the bruises and scratches, each one a testament to his dedication, fade slowly from his lithe body and be replaced by the trappings of a society that, though cruel at times, bestows upon its subjects myriad rewards all the same.

But it is only for a moment that he hesitates. He throws the Pokeball with a powerful swing of his arm and watches as the Meowth becomes red light, coalesces into a ball, becomes one with the sphere that falls to the earth. It quivers once, twice; as it shakes the third time, Karkat holds his breath, trapped in a seemingly perpetual moment of overwhelming suspense.

The red-and-white sphere comes to rest, intact, in the grass.

Karkat scoops it up with an attitude of victory, but in his moment of utmost triumph suddenly realizes that he can no longer stand. As he falls to the earth, he recalls in sudden terror the words of the wizened fortuneteller who had so recently beckoned him into an alley; "Those who become obsessed with catching Meowths will inevitably transform into tube socks."

The prophecy, at first so teasingly vague, suddenly snaps into clear focus as he watches his feet make the transition from warm flesh and blood and bone to a soft cotton-polyester blend. "No," he whispers in horror, trying to crawl away as his legs merge and become one long, pale gray sock toe. "No! I'm not a fucking sock! I'm not!" he gasps as the condition spreads up his torso, as his long hands frantically knead at the fabric before merging with it.

Although Karkat cannot apprehend it, his statement carries a heavy note of dramatic irony in the truest narrative sense; he has doomed himself to the ignominious fate of a literal fucking sock, perhaps to be used and even degraded, sadly abandoned by any unknowing man in the throes of brief yet compelling passion. Indeed, at that moment John freely wanders the wilderness, unaware of the yielding material about to fall into his grasp, not knowing the illicit pleasure it will afford him. Yet as the lighthearted adventurer enters the clearing and sees the thick gray sock conveniently curled at the base of a nearby tree, he instantly feels hot, insatiable desire rise in his loins. In the form of a lone tube sock that was once a troll, destiny beckons, and something deep within John's youthful heart responds. _Adventuring,_ he thinks to himself with the barest touch of wistfulness, _is such lonely work._

"Hey socksy!" John says in a terrible attempt at a pun, sitting down beside the sock. "Is that a Pokeball in your toe or are you just happy to see me?"

"Shut the fuck up!" retorts the sock, which to John's surprise has a gray face and a tiny set of horns that protrude from the upper hem. The ochre eyes that glare up at him shine with unmistakable intelligence.

"Oh, wow. Are you some kind of Pokemon?"

"No, asshole, I was a person until I caught that goddamned Meowth!" Karkat snaps. "And now I'm a sock. Maybe if you let that fucking Meowth out I'll turn back."

"Oh!" John says agreeably, having seen equally strange things during his adventures. "Like those people who turn into chairs sometimes. Yeah, okay." He attempts to release the Meowth, but to his surprise the Pokeball remains dark. "I can't get it to work." He slams it against a tree, then tries again. It remains stubbornly dark.

"Fucking cheap-ass shit!" Karkat rants, flopping around passionately before he notices the effect it has on the adventurer. "What, what are you staring at."

"What's your name?" he asks. Karkat pauses thoughtfully. Deep in the weave of his cotton, he too subconsciously discerns something like the faint stirring of fate, destiny being of course the sort of thing that affects even entities so humble as sentient footwear.

"Karkat," he responds.

"Well, Karkat." John bites his lip, regarding the sock. "You know the secret of raising Pokemon is to show affection, right? But, uh, you seem pretty pissed! Not that I wouldn't be if I had to be a sock."

"Hell yes you'd be pissed," Karkat retorts.

"But maybe the Meowth won't come out because of that. Maybe it's that you need to show..." He looks directly into the sock's eyes, expression as open and ingenuous as always. " _Love_."

"What the hell are you talking about-"

"Can I touch you, Karkat?" John asks levelly. Karkat stares at him, then flops slightly in a nod. He lies inert as he is lifted up, his small weight hefted in one warm hand. With the other hand, John quickly opens his pants.

Lonely from a long time on the road, it takes only a short time for the adventurer to work himself to excitation, wrapping the soft gray cotton around himself and rubbing thoughtfully as he lies on the cool forest floor. He imagines that from the start he can discern a degree of warmth in the material, of receptiveness and response, and it occurs to him as he bucks his hips experimentally that Karkat truly is no ordinary sock. He is relieved to see that the unnerving orange eyes have closed, however. Tilting his head back into the grass and closing his own eyes, he speeds up his strokes.

John quickly loses track of time as the sunlight filters through the canopy of the trees, bathing his body in shifting green light. A gentle breeze caresses his skin, the soft cotton moving over him like a granted prayer; it is easy for him to imagine that he is the first man, cradled in the nurturing arms of an infinitely creative, generative world. He loses himself in the sensation of slow warmth and the bright sound of birdsong, the feeling of fulfillment lightening his heart. After a time John sighs in contentment, picking up the Pokeball in his other hand and rubbing the cool, smooth surface over his nipples as he continues the slow, tender demergence of man and material.

"Will that get the Meowth out?" Karkat asks.

"The what?" John responds before abruptly coming, reflexively pressing the sock down to prevent a mess. "Oh, whoops!" he says apologetically, but suddenly the Pokeball luminesces and the Meowth stands beside them, staring.

_Watching._

"Uh..." John says awkwardly as he covers himself up, dropping Karkat to the grass.

"Oh...Oh gross, goddamn!" Karkat curses, lengthening, the bottom part of him splitting into legs again. "What the fuck, it's everywhere! God!"

"But it worked!" John exclaims with a restoration of his usual cheer, throwing his arms around the troll's shoulders with surprising familiarity. "And I thought it was toe-tally awesome."

"Oh my god, you unbelievable - oh shit, my Meowth!" Karkat barks as it scrambles into the underbrush. He nearly hurries after it, but with a quick glance at John and then a look down at himself he settles back. "I guess if I have to be a sock I don't really need the little bastard," he mutters sullenly as they watch it disappear into the forest.


	3. An Object Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _I am absolutely sick of prompts that aren't kinky whatsoever. It's time to make up for that. This is for kinks, not pairings!  
>  I challenge someone to write a fic with as many fetishes as possible contained within. The more taboo subjects, the better. I want it to be absolutely horrifying. You better get goddamn creative. Equal parts sexy (as in actual sex acts), disgusting (as in PISS SHIT GORE n stuff), and weird (as in rather mundane things sexualized for no apparent reason).  
> GOGOGO_

In the form of a five-paragraph dramatic summary of a novel by the Troll Marquis de Sade, "Beelux," the kinks therein to be enumerated.

Although Sollux is but a humble prison guard who enjoys crossdressing as an alluring bee, he works to the utmost to make misbehaving convict Eridan into a slave pony, referring to him in the third person and using endearments while harnessing him and hitting him with a riding crop until he bleeds. Beelux then proceeds to ritualistically feed Horseridan a single slice of apple and a sugar cube with a face drawn on it whilst peeing on his feet and calling him "darling." The changing of their names in this scene is fraught with meaning.

Soon afterward, they commence instant messaging using computer glasses despite being in the same room. Their conversation has nothing whatsoever to do with their actions, which mainly involve Horseridan groveling upon a well-polished parquet floor whilst Beelux, using his worthy steed's nook as an inkwell of sorts, inscribes the poetry of Troll Alfred Lord Tennyson on the hapless pony's back using a carrot. They discuss politics with impressive erudition.

When this important work is done, Beelux blows a novelty train whistle to summon an incredibly muscular Karkat with furry cat ears, who is slightly nonplussed but takes to the other end of Horseridan with a resigned air. Each troll has two bulges and produces enough genetic material to fill an ablution trap; however, titular character Beelux has four bulges and fills two ablution traps, so there follows a brief interlude wherein Musclekat tenderly supplies Beelux with digestive biscuits and sparkling club soda in various orifices to treat his dehydration. He later gives Horseridan a single affectionate pat on his powerful hunk rump before walking out of the story for good, but not before everyone has beheld his wide and varied array of body piercings. Horseridan is thereafter made to eat from a feedbag containing a wriggler but throws up in a bucket and is made to eat it again, this time with cinnamon, through a funnel with a tube attached, all while attempting to sing "O Alternia."

Beelux then proceeds to lovingly shave Horseridan's back as a reward, after which they don cassocks over police outfits and worship a single high-heeled left boot with a slightly scuffed toe. This is borrowed from Kanaya and set on a lit pedestal under glass. Afterward, Beelux psionically disembowels Horseridan while using his eyesockets in an unconventional way and forms his intestines into a bridle, climbing astride his noble mount and publicly riding him out into a dystopian future, lasciviously manhandling the hot innards as his noble steed metamorphoses unaccountably into a sexy motorbike.

Meanwhile, a slowly inflating Terezi in a diaper beholds this spectacle on Trollian while receiving attention from tentacled schoolgirl Feferi under the desk; Gamzee remains in the nearby closet with a heavily lactating Nepeta, both wearing nothing but strategically placed kippers and whipped cream and roleplaying as Equius and Tavros if they had been bloodswapped with each other and also raised as ladies. Honk honk indeed!

And here concludes an object lesson regarding the correlation between the number of kinks and the overall appeal of the end product, which is vanishingly small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks included:  
> Prison sex, crossdressing, bondage, ponyplay, dehumanization, endearments, flogging, blood, ritual feeding, urine, submission, scat, bodywriting, intelligence, muscles, furries, threesome, double penetration, xenophilia, hurt/comfort, cum, enemas, affection, body piercings, vore, emetophilia, untoward bucket use, force-feeding, shaving, uniforms, priests, paraphilia, foot fetish, psionics, skullfucking, guro, exhibitionism, dystopia, metamorphosis, mechanophilia, inflation, diapers, voyeurism, schoolgirls, tentacles, lactation, foodplay, roleplay, bloodswaps, genderfucking.


	4. The Johnkat Manatee Triptych: An Artistic Retrospective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _John and Karkat as manatees_

  


In this first work of the _Johnkat Manatee Triptych_ , the two titular figures float superimposed over a background of pastel stained glass. While the religious significance of this cannot be overstated, the fact remains that such an environment is inhospitable to manatees, generally aquatic mammals. These gentle cows of the sea make eye contact with one another in a way that strikes the viewer at once as reassuring, but their flippers are too small to permit contact. The resultant juxtaposition of comfort with shocking instability deconstructs the stability of pure or "blind" faith and calls into question the boundaries of the body.

  


A recursive look to the former work overpowers the scene in the second _Triptych_ work - the addition of diapers to the already ecclesiastical piece calls to mind both the fall of Man, here rendered Man _atee_ , into original sin and the possibility of death, as well as calling forth the haunting spectre of incontinence. Discerning viewers are left with a haunting query; have these manatees looked upon their own nudity and known shame? As this piece is considered religiously controversial and needing protection, it was granted a fine blue velvet curtain, behind which it was mistaken for a badly-placed window and has not been seen for years.

  


The third work in the Triptych is frequently called out by detractors as evidence of the artist's pandering for commercial appeal, and truly the colors used are much brighter, more commercial, than the colors of the other two works. However, some critics argue that this is only the logical completion of the progression shown in the other two works, a poignant display of Progress; the manatees progress from the nudity of the distant past to the elaborate artifice of the present day, but throughout this progression maintain always their surreal suspension and their reliance upon one another. Altogether, the _Johnkat Manatee Triptych_ is valued in excess of 5,000 kopecks and can be viewed at the Tate Gallery.


	5. Ephemera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Reader/Updates - months ago they left us, then came back for one wild night. It was the best night of your life.  
>  But when you woke up in the morning, they were gone._

You wake slowly the morning after, eyelids fluttering open as a faint smile graces your features. Sitting up, you run a careless hand through tousled hair, feeling as though all your tendons have loosened and been restrung in the night. It was, you think with a grin, by far the best night of your life; this update knew just what you needed after the long dry spell, delivered it hard and fast for much longer than expected, pulling gasps and cries from your mouth and dazzling you with strange beauty before drawing its merciful curtains and letting you plunge into deep, dreamless sleep. Morning sunlight filters through your thin curtains as you stretch luxuriously, scratching small itches and gathering the sheet up to cover yourself as you stand.

The first room you check is the kitchen; it makes sense to start in the place where one feeds appetites, as updates have for so long piqued yours. Yet the room is empty, a single dish beside the toaster covered with toasted bagel crumbs, a little smear of butter on the counter attesting to the temporary presence of something other than yourself. The crumbs and the dish are cold, your home heavy with the feeling of solitude and emptiness. There is no reason to check the other rooms; you can feel the absence already, aching like the hole left by a pulled tooth. Yet, like the tongue's strange impulse to explore those hollow spaces in an attempt to map their newness, you are compelled to wander the empty rooms in a mockery of searching. Here and there you pull a curtain back and look outside at the familiar scenery, everything uncanny and strange with loss.

The afterglow fades. Your bones shift in your skin, your muscles play host to a legion of new aches. After a time you find yourself sprawled in your bed again, hands pressed to your face; how could you have trusted, after this long absence, that updates would remain? Even after all that they have inspired, the intensity of your feelings, did you trust that their inconstant nature would stay forever with you? You sob quietly, turning your face into the unheeding pillow, and suddenly you hear a rustle.

"Oh," you breathe unsteadily, pulling the paper from beneath your pillow. _Just a little while longer_ , it reads, and you know with sudden, dizzying certainty that they will return. For the merest instant you entertain the possibility of changing the locks, staying away at last from the intoxicating presence of the updates, switching your phone number. Still, inwardly you know that when the updates return - fresh, desirable, forever bearing myriad exotic wonders to overwhelm and delight you - you will be there.

You will always be there.


	6. Their Pound of Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Tinkerbull swarm/Jake - Let's just get it out of the way so we can all move on with our lives._

"I say!" Jake protests as the ground falls away beneath him and the mergoat delivers one last ferocious bleat, suddenly impotent to reach him, its brutal intentions frustrated as it paces the ground in long strides behind the tiny bulls that heft him aloft. "I'm finding this all a bit excessive, and I daresay you'll be best served by dropping me at once if you know what's best for you!" The fairy bulls bob a negative response and buzz their little wings as they carry him up and away, lowing softly as they bear him over the grass to safety.

"Moo," one bull states matter-of-factly. The fact that he has no idea what it means does nothing to lessen his apprehension. The fairy bulls' ways are mysterious to him, shrouded in the mists of affection and layered with a thick haze of love; they have yet to extract their pound of flesh for his heedless slaughter of one of their own, and as he flies through the air under their power he feels the stirrings of dread at the idea of what may lie in wait for him, his life firmly in the grasp of their thumbless hooves.

"Not that I don't appreciate it, mind you," he adds, casting about for something to grab as they approach a high tree with a large knothole, a dark space easily big enough to admit him. With one last grab he seizes a tree branch, but as it snaps easily off in his hand he feels the dryness of dead wood and sighs, dropping it to the grass far below as the bulls carry him into the tree. He sprawls on the hard wood, rolling his eyes at the inconvenience. "It's very kind of you," he says in an attempt at politeness, trying to think of a way to get down from the small, dark chamber. A bull nudges his belly with its horn, catching his shirt and tearing easily through the thin fabric. "Pardon you. But as I was saying I'm fine now, I assure y - hey!" he complains as they swarm him, sharp horns catching on his shirts and shredding them to bits.

"Mooooo," one states, inscrutable, hovering before his face.

"If you don't stop all this forthwith-" he blusters at it, raising his fists, but just as he prepares to launch into irate fisticuffs it slaps the glasses from his nose with a precise blow of its tail. He stares in nearsighted shock at it right before the fairy bulls rush him en masse, knocking him to the wood and settling busily upon him in a flurry of excited activity, for all the world like a swarm of warm, friendly bees with giant horns. "Oh my!" he exclaims, flailing to no avail against the myriad ministrations of affectionate hooves and snouts, his arms pinned before he can punch any of them to establish superiority. "Well, I'll thank you to keep those hooves to yourself!" he snaps at the bulls as the seagoat outside slowly circles the tree, caught briefly in poignant lament of its hunger, and finally trails off back to the water.

The fairy bulls do not release Jake from their tender, ineffably bovine embrace until late into the evening, lowering him gently to the grass and departing in a mooing flock, their work completed. He shakes his fist at them, chilly in the night air. _How they exact their pound of flesh_ , he thinks as he stumbles home, free of the mergoat threat but haunted by the indelible memory of hours upon tortuous hours of unrelenting cuddles. _How they exact their pound of flesh_.


	7. Sensuality of the Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Calmasis/Zazzerpan - Bonus if you can maintain Calmasis' gender ambiguity the whole time._

We were legion, once.

Zazzerpan considers this fact as he turns a captured pawn over and over in his gnarled, coriaceous fingers, traversing its form, tracing and retracing it like a blind man trying to deduce the answer to an unsolvable puzzle, a cruel jest designed to eke a laugh from cold and endless cosmos. He will win the game; he does not merely determine the outcome as a function of chance, chess being a game reliant solely on the motivating forces of potent intellects. Rather, Zazzerpan knows that even if this apprentice's cunning and sagacity rival those of the learned, even though one by one they faded into the impenetrable obscurity of their twilight years before succumbing at last to the unfathomable darkness and learned the final lesson - what it is to perish, to pass beyond the Veil - he, Zazzerpan, has recovered a motivation that had been lost to him. The tireless machinations of Calmasis have served only to vanquish Zazzerpan's Complacency. 

Calmasis's hands move over the board with ineffable grace and a shameless lack of hesitation, long fingers dark and elegant as they caress the knight entrapped in the spidery hand. The apprentice's familiarity transcends the realm of mundanity; it is as though Zazzerpan beholds his own intellect in a mirror, the white perfection of those downy locks signifying the blank terror of the powerful beholding their own power, the dusky skin emblematic not only of the mysterious and arcane but of the primal human fear of that which is unknown; a young, androgynous figure sketched in monochromatic abstraction. And yet the time for philosophy has passed. "Check," Zazzerpan says.

"The time for philosophy has passed, Zazzers," Calmasis whispers, almost conciliatory in condescension. Not for the first time, the wizened sage fiddles with his beard and ponders the foolishness of having allowed such a silly nickname to stick. Calmasis seems to know everything he thinks before he thinks it. As the realization percolates through his synapses, Zazzerpan feels the algid fingers of anxiety ghost over his elderly bowels. Perhaps what appears a game of chess may be in truth a mere allurement.

"I concur," he responds, and with a heavy hand moves his knight. "Checkmate," he says wearily, arms falling to his sides. Calmasis regards the board, a gentle smile curving the edges of dark lips that part to reveal teeth white as pearls, sharp as razors. Zazzerpan's spine stiffens as an enemy bishop advances, the cleft in its top menacing in its immensity. It in symbolic in ways he comprehends all too thoroughly. If one could auscultate the sorceror's venerable ribcage, one would hear his superannuated cardiac muscle receiving for the first time in decades a brisk workout, fluttering in the manner of a mewed up member of the family Columbidae. That the game could persist after the calling of checkmate is inconceivable. In short, something is very wrong. 

"Defeat," Calmasis hisses, slim hands sketching arcane sigils in the air, "is for the weak and the foolish, and you will find that I am neither of these." Zazzerpan fiddles vehemently with his beard, forming the basis of a powerful cantrip as his careworn fingers rummage through the noble filaments, but before any countermeasure may be deployed the chessboard is pushed away by the force of Calmasis's dread sorcery. The air itself grows charged with its power. Zazzerpan, pushed to the floor by its force, knows with certainty what must follow in this battle.

Alas, however, it is here that specifics must give way to comforting generalities. Those already of the wizardly persuasion know in the language beyond words what the violent osculations of sorcerors entail, the clash of wills and power and venerable facial hair, and for those not privileged to join their ranks the description of these physical pleasures and trials could never hope to impart the same lofty and nonverbal wonder. It is enough to say that the checking, the mating performed upon the chessboard that fateful night went beyond that performed by pawns and knights and bishops; that at last, forgoing those who had previously been sacrificed, the ebony of chess pieces and the flesh of the rest of the Complacency, the leaders met and understood each other in a way encompassing the physical and transcending that nigh-insurmountable barrier of age that had theretofore stood between the two of them. Magic in the truest sense passed that night between the wizard and his apprentice.

It was whispered thereafter, through countless generations of minstrels too disgusted to speak aloud upon the subject, that theirs was a meeting for the ages. It was said that lightning crackled in the air and the seas roiled outside the darkened lighthouse as the wizards fought their final battle, panting and rolling and bucking together upon the checkered, unyielding surface of the battlefield, their bodies outlined in cruel contrast against the stark squares of black and white. Some minstrels thought it ironic that high-flown intellectual pursuits and magical battles would come to such physical depths. These minstrels in truth comprehended nothing of irony. Those who could have taught them had long since passed away.

And yet after a time the storm and seas ebb, lingering upon the shore in a last, electrified caress. Calmasis rolls from Zazzerpan as a person, having found an oasis in the desert and slaked a burning thirst, rolls away from the life-giving fluid to avoid drowning within its unsounded depths. Zazzerpan fiddles with his beard to set it in order. Both sorcerors know the outcome of their tryst. The contest ended as their powers intertwined and engaged in subtle and furious machinations against each other, as one inevitably gave way before the force and cunning of the other. The two have reached their conclusion.

"Well," Calmasis murmurs, eyes closed. "Well."

"Yes," Zazzerpan agrees, mouth set in an unyielding line behind the majestic, antiquated ruin of his flowing moustache. "Yes."


	8. Complacency of the SEXXXY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Calmasis/Zazzerpan - Roxy's shitty wizard fanfic_

~~Cum~~ Complacency of the _**Sexxxy**_

a/n this is right after Calmasis got rid of the chessboard and everyone knows what's going on (they're totes boning) but the story doesnt say (remember to mention that shit when you type this out)

Zazzerpan's ~~precosh~~ ~~precociu~~ fuck it i'll look it up later apprentice got closer to the fallen wizard on the board, pushing up the skirts of the old man's robe to show off his pretty fuckin decent set of aged gams. They'd be worth writing home about ~~ecxept~~ ~~expect~~ except neither of them had anyone to write to anymore because everyone else was on the one-way train to deadville. All they had was each other and now. "Excellent," said the apprentice, showing off some gams that (tbh) werent so shabby thmselves.

*themselves

Calmasis shucked off ~~her~~ the robe like someone shuckin a corncob (figue out a better metaphor here numpnuts). Zazzers gasped "By the Complacency!" when he beheld Calmasis's sweet bod exposed before him. He'd seen it before in ~~Clamato~~ Calmasis's apprenticeship but every time was different, probably cause of ~~witchcraft~~ wytchkkraft. He touched his beard a little and got calmed down before calmasis's mouth captured his in some hot wizardly ~~oscillations~~ osculations. The sex battle... **was on.**

The power fought in the air all snaps and crackles and some pops while Calmssis's tongue fought for entrance into Zazzers's mouth, all tangled up in mustache ruins and a hot slick cavern. It ran over all the relics of his teeth. Zazzerpan moaned and arched up, robes falling open like the cover of a ~~magic~~ majyyk book exposin all its arcanest ~~serkets~~ secrets as his orbs went wide. Calmasis smiled as Zazzers lost his sense of ~~chess tictacs~~ chess tactics and spread out all over the squares. Calmasis started gettin all up on that like a snow-maned untamed ~~stallone~~

only probs not a dude i gotta ask the op whats what before i write th nexst ~~cheptar~~ ~~chuper~~ ~~chptaer~~ fuck it i'm goin to bed


	9. A Prompt Generator Companion

Alone and neglected since hatching, left to his own devices and the unfeeling machinations of a cold and merciless world, Gamzee Makara knows all too well what it is to feel the slow unraveling of self in the absence of others. He no longer remembers when he first fell to pieces - two or three pieces, he can't tell, and when he reaches that state he no longer cares anyway - but he does remember the first time he ate the slime and felt the world soften around him, settling into colorful shapes he felt no need to understand. When he feels that stability slipping, draining the beauty from the world to reveal an ugly lack of control beneath, he knows exactly what to do. He eats of the green ambrosia, drinks deep of the Lethean waters, until the minute the slime runs out and control slips away. His world blurs, vague and hideous without the nectar that sustains him, until he finds himself trapped, restrained, and confused.

Exposed beneath the bright lights, leather cords biting into his wrists as he tries to come to terms with endless ugliness, Gamzee feels for the first time that there could be other ways to delineate the world. Arranged naked in a humiliating position, head down in a flowerpot and legs trapped in shackles hanging from the metal ceiling, he stares with an air of revelation at the red petunias around his face. "Honk," he says softly, wonderingly, before biting off a flower and gnawing on it with a louder, angrier series of honks. His mind races in conflicting circles, in turns furious and anxious as the blood rushes to his head.

"Let a brother out," he beseeches in a high voice, horns buried in the dirt. "Let a motherfucking brother out!" The sharp snap of a whip, the shock of thin leather curling around his ribs, sends him into a frenzied storm of honking. As he hangs upside-down, unable to see anything but dirt, petunias, and terra cotta, feeling nothing but the lash and the cool air tenderly stroking the welts across his ribs, Gamzee finds quickly that the world is far simpler than he believed. Subjected to capricious whims, not needing to think, he is at once given to his own reactions and the desires of others. The helplessness is terrifying, yet there emerges a sick relief at the loss of control; a world without decisions, without complexity, opens up before him with strange brilliance. He honks quietly to himself in an uncontrollable verbal tic, deprived of sight and senses.

He wants to spite the one who imprisons him, who so carelessly toys with his status and demeans him, and yet at the same time he is paradoxically compelled to please and to nurture this power that overrides his own desire and clarifies the world. "Honk," he whispers after a time, surrendering unequivocally to a mysterious power far greater than his own. The rage subsides slowly in his heart as it gives way to submission. "Hooooonk," he sighs.

"Meow," answers Jaspers, judiciously toying with the end of the leather whip between his paws. Feline eyes narrow in a slow, victorious blink as he rumbles deep in his throat. His delicate ears angle to catch every faltering honk, every testament to his strength and willpower as he kneads the leather with fastidious claws. Years spent curled on Rose's lap, learning psychology and the subtle art of interpersonal manipulation, have at last served him admirably. Satisfied, he licks one paw. "Purrrrr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I felt it would do the reader a disservice, making it clear from the get-go that this was to be Jaspers/Gamzee humiliation kink; _you'd spend the whole time waiting for the other mew to drop!_ Oh, but I went too far; this fic really does put the purple in purple prose, right? It's downright violet; really, it's _purrfectly meowtrageous_.
> 
> The whole schtick here is that you soldier through that terrible prose to the end and then feel that I'm repeatedly punching you in the gut with these awful puns, by the way.

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> **Works Cited**  
> 
> 
> 1\. Wikipedia contributors, "Fauteuil," Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, [http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Fauteuil&oldid=481503276](http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Fauteuil&oldid=481503276) (accessed June 11, 2011).


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